


Writing Warmup: Wranduin, Varrosh, etc.

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 23:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: A collection of drabbles based on prompts: Waking up in an unfamiliar bed, a deal, a whispered argument, a misunderstanding, taking someone home, and a turn-on.





	Writing Warmup: Wranduin, Varrosh, etc.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a list of prompts from @promptsgalore

**111: Write about waking up in a bed that isn’t yours (Wranduin)**

Stormwind Keep was…something. That was to be sure. When they had met in Pandaria, it had been on equal footing, as guests in the same cozy inn with two beds just across the hall from one another. They had snuck around under the cover of night, stealing dumplings and beer from the kitchen downstairs, staying up late and passing out in a heap with their heads pressed against the gaming table. It had been homey, familiar. Anduin had kept him warm when the mists rolled in and the heat drained from every corner of the room.

But nothing had prepared him for the royal chambers. The first time he flew up to the window and scratched his claws against the glass has been one week past the Broken Shore. A light had flickered on; a face had appeared from the shadows: pale, lips shadowed in grief and eyes stained red. That night he hadn’t thought too much of the silk sheets and carved canopy hanging over their heads. He had been too concerned with his prince, the way he shook as he held him close. His disheveled hair and the heat of his body as they kissed and promised it would all be okay. Anduin had felt different then. He had felt strong, tired. He had felt like a king.

By the time sunlight spilled across the blue silk sheets Anduin was gone. Wrathion had blinked, uncurled himself from the pillow, and stared at the gilded mirrors and carved oak furniture surrounding him. His breath left his chest when he realized what his prince had become.

He often woke up in this bed now. When Stormwind grew cold, rain pounding against the walls and wind whispering up his spine, he crawled through that window and up under those silk duvets, desperate for something warm, familiar. He nuzzled against King Anduin’s chest, and when his king wrapped his arms around him, he felt at home.

 

**107\. Write about a deal that takes place between two friends (”friends?”) (Kaellidan)**

The vial glittered and danced between his fingers, its energy throbbing, almost palpable, and it was all Kael’thas could do to keep himself from shattered the glass and consuming it all at once. He ached for this. His people ached for it, but he knew if he were to save them, he had to hold on, to steal himself, or else—

The mattress shifted as Illidan rose to his feet in front of him. His tattoos cast their fel green light across the vial as he leaned over, and his hair brushed Kael’thas’ cheek. The prince looked up. The fingers of his free hand slid across Illidan’s abdomen and down to the front of his pants.

“Eager, are you?” The Night Elf chided, and normally Kael would have met this slight with offense. How dare this _criminal_ tease the heir of Quel’thalas in bed? How dare he slide his claws through his silky hair and tug it into a knot, pressing his face against his cock like a common _whore_? But when he opened his mouth to snap back, all his lips found were flesh. Fel energy seized him, throbbing between his fingers and against his throat, flooding him, consuming him, and he could not find it in himself to care.

 

**71: Write something that begins with a whispered argument between two people (Varrosh)**

“What did you just say?” 

Even under his breath, Varian’s snap felt like a growl: husky and sharp, brimming with all the anger of a wolf straining against his chains. And it was clear that, for the former slave, every meeting with the orcs felt like a collar clenched around his neck. No matter how many desperate looks Jaina shot in his direction, King Wrynn couldn’t keep still, and he loved it. He loved the indignation, the way the human’s cheeks burned and his eyes flashed. The promise of rage that would send him lunging across the table and wrapping his fingers tight around Garrosh’s neck. 

He leaned closer, so close that the human’s breath was hot against his face. His own pants started to feel too tight, but he refused to acknowledge it, refused to let the look of conflict and shame rise to his cheeks and steal the snarl from his lips. He wasn’t excited about the human, of course. It was just a natural reaction: fervor stirring before a battle of wills against a hated foe. 

And he would have his battle. He would have King Wrynn’s nails digging into his skin as he slammed his back to the floor, pulling his hair, pressing his knee between his legs and holding him down. He would have him yielding, begging, squirming. He would have heated skin pressed flush against him, the human’s mouth parting in a moan as the whole conference of orcs and humans looked on. He’d silence those lips with his own, press his tongue between them and claim them. He’d make sure this king never spoke ill of the Horde again, giving him more than his pride to choke down, leaving him breathless, desperate. He would—  
“Well?” Varian scowled, raising his voice. Their eyes met: Varian’s were like the sea, deep and unknowable, and Garrosh hated it. He slammed back his chair. Varian jumped to his feet, and they loomed close, too close, so close that Garrosh found himself unable to breathe.

It took a moment for the human to speak again, but by the time he did, Garrosh was ready to lunge.

“I said _what did you say, pig_? Don’t think I haven’t seen you staring.”

 

**8: Write a misunderstanding (Thraina)**

“Oh!” A small noise escaped the Archmage, her gaze moving from her friend’s face to the luxurious white fur clasped in his green hands. She studied it for a moment, as if waiting for some explanation, some reason behind the sudden gift. It wasn’t Winter Veil, and her birthday was still two months away. Even up on the tournament grounds she didn’t believe for a moment the Warchief had lost track of the date. It wasn’t a holiday gift. But why—

Thrall seemed to catch the silent question on her half-parted lips. Extending his arms, he explained, a bit sheepish: “Last night when we parted at your tent, you said it was too cold to sleep. I just thought—”

 _Oh._ Her cheeks darkened. She silently prayed her wind-chapped face would conceal the blush. But when she reached out to accept the gift, their fingers brushed, and no excuse or facade in the world could hold back the noise that escaped her. A silent realization passed between them, and when she met his eyes again, they were larger, more unsure. She could have sworn his cheeks were just as flushed as hers.

“Oh, ah, thank you,” she managed. Her voice nearly died as an icy gale swept between them, whipping her hair and ruffling the fur caught between their fingers. Without pause, she hugged the pelt to her chest and enjoyed the softness, the earnestness with which it had been given. They watched each other for a moment. She smiled. He blushed.

“It really does get cold up here at night, doesn’t it?”

 

**128: Write about taking someone home (Variarthas)**

As if having to marry someone against his will wasn’t bad enough, _he_ had to come in and remind him what he was giving up. 

The wedding celebration was already under way in the courtyard below, but just as he donned his last piece of armor, Arthas burst in, blond hair swaying against his cheeks and lips set into a scowl, as if Varian were somehow wronging _him_. As if this were something he had chosen. Lordaeron’s prince had always been selfish, but even Varian hadn’t expected this level of narcissism.

“I have to. You know that, Arthas.” It was hard to keep his voice steady with his friend’s hand on him like this, fingers far too familiar with his hair and the shape of his chest. It was just like being back on the sparring yard, only this time there would be no teasing, no stolen touches behind the weapon rack or embarrassed glances as they mopped the sweat from their brows. There was only Arthas’ hand shaking him, clenching around the eagle he wore on his shoulder. There was only the mattress shaking as he fell back onto the bed, and the prince’s hips around his waist for what would surely be the last time. Varian inhaled. Arthas pressed.

“You can come back home with me. You can stay with me. Don’t you see, Varian? You’re a king now. No one can tell you—.”

“What? Is that how your father rules, then? Forsaking his people and breaking alliances? You don’t understand, Arthas. You don’t—.”

 _Care._ He stopped himself from saying it, but it still hung in the air like a curse. Because Arthas didn’t care, and they both knew it. From the first time Varian had tried to kiss him, it was clear that, for Arthas, this was little more than a game: a few gropes under the covers, a surge of triumph and a moan in the dark when Varian wrapped his fingers around him. There had never been a future in it; Arthas had always been very clear about that. So how could he, how _dare_ he, pretend there was any space for together now? 

“Go home, Arthas.” Steeling himself, he rolled out from under his friend. Arthas slipped; the bed creaked as his armor sank hard against the mattress.

The prince groaned, but Varian wouldn’t look back.

 

**68: Write about a turn on (Wranduin)**

It was just a little thing, but for some reason it always left Anduin flushed. 

The first time was at the Tavern in the Mists. He had been teasing Wrathion about something small— a misplaced tile, perhaps, or a piece of food that had slipped from the dragon’s chopsticks and fallen with a ‘flp’ off the table— when Wrathion flashed him that look: heated, mischievous, as dangerous and alluring as a flame sparked to life in the woods. He reached across the table; his nail traced from Anduin’s ear to his jaw. The human squirmed, and the dragon chided:

“Oh? And what are you going to do about it, my prince? Are you going to _punish me_?”

It wasn’t even the words so much as how he said them— so smooth, so eager— that Anduin couldn’t chase from his mind. No matter what the dragon did, he never intended to actually punish him. But this game was safe: no winners, no losers, only a dragon’s teasing submission and the fire that blazed in his eyes. The thought kept Anduin company long after they parted; the promise of kisses and rubbing and wandering hands followed him back to his chamber and into the deepest parts of the night. 

So when Wrathion returned to him— a little taller now, and all the more suave— and they found themselves alone in his room, Anduin seized the chance to finish what they had started so long ago. Now it was his hand, not Wrathion’s, that reached across the table to press against the curve of a cheek. He held the dragon’s gaze. Wrathion’s bishop rolled off the game board before it could capture the king. 

“Oh, what is _this_?” Wrathion managed to tease, but Anduin’s forwardness had clearly caught him by surprise. He drew in a breath. Anduin’s finger traced along the line of his jaw and curled up in the tuft of hair on his chin. Anduin felt him tremble, watched his eyes flash, and then—

“Is my king going to _punish me_?”


End file.
